“You enjoyed your meal?” Radionovich asked in Russian.
“It was exceptional,” said Sophia, trying to act casual.
“You tried the fried liver?”
“Yakov, you know me too well.”
“And you, my dear,” said Radionovich, turning to Rada, “how is the bank?”
Rada looked toward Sophia, hoping she would answer for her, but when Sophia remained silent, Rada answered that the bank was fine.
“What a beautiful thing,” said Radionovich, looking at the two of them sitting at the table. “An aunt and her niece enjoying a nice dinner.” The mood at the table shifted.
“Please, not here,” said Sophia.
“Here is where I found you,” said Radionovich, the words rolling over mucus in his throat.
“Listen to me, I will come to you and we will talk later,” said Sophia, gesturing like she wanted to get up from the table. Georgy stood up, blocking her exit.
“You know your aunt is a real magician,” said Radionovich, moving his hands as he spoke. “She appears and disappears whenever she wants.”
Sophia remained silent. Rada stared down at the table.
“You owe us,” said Radionovich.
“Please, this is not the place.”
Georgy, still standing, walked behind Rada and began massaging her shoulders. “Don’t be so tense,” he whispered in her ear in English. Rada blanched and stared at her aunt.
“Perhaps your niece can arrange a loan,” said Radionovich. The seed was planted.
Sophia felt sick with guilt as this memory played through her mind. How had she let this happen? How had she been so stupid? Of all the wretched things she had done in her life, and there were many, this was the worst. She tried to convince herself that Radionovich had made her do it: he made me, she thought, but it wasn’t true.
Less than a week after the encounter at the restaurant, Sophia finally pretended to give in to her niece’s offers of help. If Rada agreed to help her get out of this one situation, Sophia had said, she would never involve her again. And so they decided to rob the bank.
The plan, created by Sophia herself, was designed so that neither Sophia nor Radionovich would have any direct tie to it. Sophia would find an American girl, a drug addict. The fact that she was American would help distance them from the crime. They would control the girl with drugs: crack and oxycodone to lure her in and keep her settled; a mixture of scopolamine, Estazolam, and amobarbital to break her will.
Radionovich said he could supply a man, a Russian named Benya Stavitsky, to serve as the handler. Stavitsky was desperate and would do exactly as they told him. If he got caught, no problem. If he died, no problem. He was disposable.
Things fell apart almost immediately. It became clear within the first few hours that Benya Stavitsky would not be up to the task. He could not be counted on; he was depressed, and helpless. Within minutes of arriving at the hotel he was smoking crack. He could not handle himself, let alone the American girl. Besides, it was not in Sophia’s DNA to relinquish control. The plan had been orchestrated to ensure that Sophia did not have any contact with the American girl, but shortly after getting Emily to the hotel, Sophia knew she would have to take over. After the first day it became clear that Sophia was on her own. Benya Stavitsky was no help to her; even Georgy—except for his ability to make a credible bomb and his silly little cameras—proved useless.
Sophia was not supposed to ever go to the bank. She was not even supposed to be in the area. Benya Stavitsky was supposed to handle the job, with Georgy following. Now Benya Stavitsky was dead, the drug-addicted American had somehow stolen the money, and Sophia’s only family, her little kulkoka moya, was missing.
Just a few days ago Rada had called Sophia from a pay phone and told her that Radionovich had come by her house. She had insisted that he did not threaten her, that he only wanted to hear her version of events, but for Sophia, the fact that he visited her proved his guilt. She sat on her niece’s bed and tried to calm her fear. If anything happened to Rada she would kill every last person involved. Surely, he must be holding her until the money is found; he’ll return her after that. He must have taken her as some type of insurance policy; it was unthinkable that he would have harmed her. Whatever the case, it was an act of war. They will all meet the devil. I will cut off their hands. They will all be buried in the earth.
Her thoughts were interrupted by her phone vibrating harshly in her pocket. She looked at the phone and saw it was Radionovich’s man, Timothy Nichols. Nichols was an American that Radionovich used to find people. He had been stationed outside Emily’s apartment for the last few days.
“Yes?” answered Sophia.
“I just met your girl,” said the voice on the other line.
Sophia, thinking for a moment that he was talking about her niece, then understanding it was Emily, growled, “Where is she?”
“She’s standing at the corner of Sixth and Minna watching me.”
Sophia closed her eyes for a moment and tried to picture the scene: the image of Emily staring at Nichols while he spoke on the phone seemed absurd.
“Follow her, idiot.”
“Don’t worry.”
“Don’t worry? Why didn’t you stop her?” asked Sophia.
“’Cause she had a pistol pointed at my head.”
“You’re at the Auburn?”
“That’s right.”
“Georgy will be there in five minutes.”
8
A few hours before Sophia received the call from the American telling her he had seen Emily, Elias had walked into the Gang Task Force office and found Trammell standing with six other cops in front of a dry-erase board. It had been one day since Elias moved Rada Harkov’s dead body and he still hadn’t been able to tell Trammell about it.
Trammell had seen him come into the room. Their eyes met for a moment, but Trammell looked away. Elias flanked the group on the right side and tried again to catch Trammell’s eye, and again was ignored. It was preposterous. Why in the hell would he ignore him at a time like this? Elias’s stomach was beginning to hurt in a way that felt medical. Trammell could not have seemed further away. Elias felt a deep loneliness.
“Hey,” said a cop named Oscar Tulafona, coming out of nowhere.
“What?” said Elias.
“You fucking stink.” He said it hatefully.
Things got worse. As the meeting ended, Sergeant Muniz came into the room and called Trammell over to him. Trammell joined the sergeant at the doorway for a moment; they conferred with their heads down and their hands up near their chins, like a pitcher talking to a manager, and then they stepped out of the room. Where were they going? Elias looked around to see if anyone else had noticed. Nobody had. They were all joking about something. Everyone was carrying on, laughing and joking. Their skin looked horrible—a sea of pink skin and broken capillaries. Fat. They were all fat. Everyone was joking and fat. The room was closing in on him. He needed a drink. He needed to talk with Trammell. Make sure he was going to stay solid.
Trammell was gone for what felt like an hour. An hour of panic. The worst hour of Elias’s life. Was Trammell confessing? Elias couldn’t breathe. He was sweating. He pretended to write a report. Where was his partner? Trammell could save him with a few kind words. Where is my partner? He could imagine two scenarios and both were equally bad. Either Trammell was snitching on Elias to save himself, telling them everything about the redhead, the bank, everything, or he was trying to get some kind of transfer, trying to save himself that way. He was trying to leave. That was clear. He would snitch his way out, or he would beg his way out. Elias knew it. In the end, friends weren’t friends, they were enemies.
Elias tried to read Trammell’s face when the man stepped back into the room. Trammell was ice cold. He always had been. He was a fake. That was the thing about him, that’s why he was so successful, that was the reason why everyone loved him. He was a fucking fake.
“Let’s go,” said Trammell. His fac
e looked sad. Elias got up from his desk and wondered what that sad face could mean. Did he snitch? Did he snitch? Sadness and fear fought for majority control of Elias’s inner self.
They walked silently to the car, Trammell staying a few paces ahead of Elias. He’s acting like I killed that lady, thought Elias. A nasty feeling filled Elias. He wanted to ignore him, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop paying attention to him. He was transfixed. He couldn’t think one thought that didn’t relate in some way to Trammell. He couldn’t even stop looking at him. He measured his back and wondered whether he could take him in a fight. He knew he couldn’t.
They got in the car. Elias got in the driver’s seat out of habit, but he didn’t know whether he was able to drive. He was so tired. He hadn’t slept in over fifty hours. They sat in the car without moving.
“How are you?” Elias finally asked, not knowing what else to say. His voice came out dully from the top of his chest; the sound of the words echoed around the car. He had to physically will himself not to cry. He could smell his own breath.
“I’m good.”
“You need anything, you let me know, right?”
“Course,” said Trammell. Just that single, disdainful word: course. Elias turned and looked at him. It looked like all of Trammell’s facial muscles had bunched up into a genuine mask of hatred—a hate mask. His skin, normally brown, looked gray. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot. Trammell snorted through his nose and looked ahead. None of it seemed genuine. He seemed like a different guy. Like a complete stranger.
“What was the sergeant saying?”
“Nothing.”
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Elias almost got into an accident as he pulled out onto Seventh Street. A truck honked and lurched. Trammell’s hand shot up to the ceiling. Elias felt like he needed to be 5150’d. He felt shaken.
They drove in silence. Elias debated with himself until finally he said, “I found the Sophia woman.”
“Uh huh,” said Trammell.
The Federal Building grew taller as they approached it. A labor union was staging a protest in front of it. “No union! No peace! No union! No peace!”
“She lives in the Sunset,” said Elias. He didn’t know why he was telling Trammell this, but he couldn’t stop.
Trammell stayed silent. They crossed Market Street.
“Super-normal house, garden hoses,” said Elias. He didn’t even know what he was saying anymore. He couldn’t stop talking. “Nice house. It looked like medium rich. Weird.”
Trammell rolled down his window and said, “I don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”
“Just working,” said Elias, defensively. And just like that he was burning. His face was red. He didn’t know why. He wanted an excuse to pull over so he could drink wine. What was I talking about? What was I talking about? Fuck you.
Elias drove up Leavenworth in silence. This was rock bottom. He was driving in a city filled with junkies and bums, driving around with a murderer, and he had to defend himself. He silently mouthed the words fuck you.
The police radio was droning on in the background. Elias felt seized by panic every time he heard mention of the Ingleside District. He was convinced the dispatcher would be calling out an 802, code for a dead body, at any moment.
He decided it would be better not to tell Trammell he had moved the body. Better to let him think she was still sitting inside the house.
They drove in silence, circling through the Tenderloin, causing people to shout out “Five-O!” on every block.
After a while Trammell quietly asked: “Did you hear anything?”
“What?”
“Did they find her yet?”
“The girl?”
“The lady,” said Trammell. “The lady at the house.”
Is he bugged? Is he wearing a mic? Did they put him up to this? thought Elias.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” said Elias. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t come up with the right words. He couldn’t even understand what Trammell was asking. He kept driving. His mouth became dry.
“Did they find her?” asked Trammell again.
“Who?”
“The cops,” said Trammell. “The cops? San Bruno?”
Elias heard the words and weighed them. “The girl you killed?” he asked. It came out too hard. It was a test. He wanted to test Trammell, see if he was bugged.
“I didn’t kill anybody,” said Trammell
Elias looked at him and felt confused. Trammell continued staring straight ahead. Didn’t kill anybody.
Elias turned left onto Eddy Street and then circled back around on Polk. A tranny prostitute blew him a kiss. There were crowds of homeless people.
“I can’t work,” said Elias.
“Me neither,” said Trammell, and this small agreement, this tiny little coming together, made Elias feel something like hope. He wanted to reach out and hold Trammell’s hand. He wanted to be close to him. He wanted to smell him.
Elias’s phone rang in his pocket. The caller ID said San Francisco County Jail. A recorded voice told Elias the call was collect from an inmate. He pressed 1 to accept. It was Billy Franco, the snitch.
“I got some good news.”
“What?” said Elias. The tiredness, the depression, it all disappeared.
“I found what you wanted.”
“Tell it.”
“You gonna help me?” asked Franco.
“Of course.” Course. Course. Course.
“You gonna get me out of here?”
“Of course.” Elias knew the call would have been recorded, but he didn’t care. “Tell me,” he said impatiently. He looked over at Trammell, whose face had morphed back from ugly to beautiful.
“Apparently, some Russians have been looking for a girl called Emily Rosario. They want her bad.”
“Consider yourself a free man,” said Elias.
“When you gonna get me out?”
“Whenever you want.”
“We got her,” said Elias; his smile, an unsure, painful-looking thing, seemed to be asking for a response, for some kind of affirmation, but Trammell didn’t know how to respond. “We got that bitch,” said Elias. “Emily Rosario, stealing my money, stealing our money.”
Trammell’s face looked confused.
“I pulled our snitch Franco out of CJ-5 and asked him to work his magic,” continued Elias, “and boom.” He raised his cell phone to show Trammell. “Fucking got her. She’s the one. We got her. Billy Franco’s in the fucking house, dog!”
If Trammell smiled while Elias told him this, it wasn’t because he was happy; it was because he was scared of Elias, who had gone from listless to crazed in the span of a phone call. Elias’s behavior wasn’t just unpredictable, it wasn’t a mood swing, it seemed mentally unstable. Trammell’s smile was a reaction to this instability. It was the type of smile offered to appease a crazy person.
Elias raced through traffic to get them back to the Hall of Justice. Trammell followed him into the building. He wanted to keep him in his sight, make sure he didn’t do anything stupid. Elias went straight to the Identification Bureau and ordered Emily Rosario’s most recent mug shot.
Back in the hallway they looked at the page, her picture on the right, her description on the left. She had been arrested ten months earlier after trying to buy oxycodone from an undercover cop. The picture showed Emily in the county-issued orange jail suit. Her face looked vaguely hopeful, like she expected to be released after the picture was taken. Her skin was pale. Her hair had been long then; it hung down past her ears. She was five feet three inches tall and weighed only one hundred and twenty pounds. Tattoos: Bildad, left wrist; Champion of the World, left shoulder; clear complexion. Her last known address was 480 Minna Street, 312, San Francisco. Elias recognized the address as the Auburn Hotel.
“We got this fucking bitch,” said Elias, nodding his head as he drove them back to Sixth Street. They drove past the Auburn and parke
d about fifty feet from the front door. The alley was quiet.
They had to buzz at the front gate to be let in.
“Who you here to see?” said the manager.
“Parole sweep,” said Elias, flashing his badge. The manager, his face looking indifferent and tired, buzzed them through the second gate.
They went up the three flights of stairs, passing a young woman smoking a cigarette who called out after them, “Hey Darryl, here they come! Whoop, whoop!”
Nobody answered at Emily Rosario’s door.
Emily’s neighbor, Isaac, tucked inside his room, listened to the banging and wondered what all the fuss was about.
On the way back out, the manager confirmed that Emily Rosario did in fact live there.
“Y’all know me by the swag of my walk,” sang Elias as they walked back out into the night. “The swag of my talk, the swag of my block.”
He opened the door to the car, looked at Trammell, circled with his finger to the sky, and said, “She’s here, I can feel her.” He raised his eyebrows and asked: “You wanna fish for her here? Or should we circle?”
Trammell shook his head.
“Let’s circle.”
They did loops: Leavenworth to Sutter to Hyde to Eighth to Folsom to Sixth and back again. They looked at every female they passed on the street, measured their bodies, mentally weighed them, took in their height, their race, and tried to match them to their image of Emily Rosario. They decided not to use any more snitches at this point; better to keep the circle small. “She will appear,” said Elias. “They always do.”
Elias told a story about finding a murder suspect named Dante Hayes, who had been particularly hard to track down. It was from back when Elias still worked in the Ingleside District. Trammell had heard it before but he played along and nodded when he was supposed to. “Must have checked his house over twenty times,” said Elias. “Finally caught him at the YMCA on Ocean. Welch was working out, spotted Dante lifting weights.” Elias looked at Trammell, who nodded. Elias continued: “Wanted for murder, but still had to get his workout in.” Elias laughed. “I told him when I cuffed him that he could lift all the weights he wanted at San Quentin.”
The White Van Page 15
